CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
STERLING
Rorke and I are leaving for New Orleans tomorrow. It’s not a long drive, but I’m not prepared to go. The food poisoning kept me pretty tired and weak for a couple days, so I just vegged out at home or at Rorke’s. I didn’t see a soul other than him for days. I went to book club today, which took up a huge chuck of my morning, but it was worth it because it’s the last one for a while. With everyone’s kids now out of school, the book club operations have been put on hiatus.
So now I’m rushing to pick up last minute items I need for the trip. I’d hoped to get a new outfit or two, knowing Rorke has so many plans for us. Plus, he’s got a meeting set up with his friend and a bunch of other rich types, hoping to drum up donations, and I’ll be by his side for that. I need to look decent. Unfortunately, there’s no time for shopping now. I suspect the shopping is probably better in New Orleans than it is here, anyway.
Stopping in at the local drugstore, I pick up a basket and toss in a few things: razor, travel size deodorant, new polish for my toes. What else? My period’s not due until we get back; hopefully, the damn thing doesn’t come early. I grab a box of tampons just in case, not remembering how many I have at home. Why can I never remember whether I have tampons and pads? It’s like I have a mental block.
My eyes land on the contraception section. Every song that’s played in my head today has been about one thing. Guess I’m being led by the hip-hop gods. Should I buy condoms? I’m on the pill, but maybe doubling up is best. I’ve never bought them before. The few guys I’ve been with always took care of that. I’m sure Rorke has this covered, and if I’m honest, I really don’t want to use them with him, but I pick up a box anyway, staring down at the packaging.
“Are congratulations in order?” a snippy voice asks.
I look up, finding Mrs. Quaid, dressed to kill, staring at the ring on my finger. “No.”
“Then perhaps you should put those down. Wouldn’t want people to get the wrong impression of you.”
“What impression would that be?”
“I’m just glad you’re wise enough to use protection. You shouldn’t bring innocent babies into your type of life.”
I feel a lump in my throat, as if all my tears and sorrows are stuck right there. She’s hit me in a sensitive spot. As I try to choke back my emotions, she steps closer to me, like she’s telling me a secret.
“I’m just trying to help you out. You’re single and standing in broad daylight holding those things.”
“I’m not single,” I say.
“You’re not married,” she says.
I toss the box at her. “You are. Enjoy!”
I hear the box drop to the floor, her gasping, as I turn and walk away from her. “Who’s the lucky man?” she calls out.
Something inside me tells me to be careful, so I just keep on strutting.
*
Don’t let that bitch get you to, I tell myself. But no matter how many times I repeat it, no matter how fast I drive, I can’t shake her words. I should have thicker skin with all the crap I’ve had said to me. But I don’t.
It’s times like these when I wonder if I should just sell my company, pack it in. I’ve got all the money I need, why put up with the bullshit? The truth is, my job can be really fun. It’s not all bad, but it’s hard to remember that when things like this happen.
No matter how many songs I blast, nothing helps. All my badass chick anthems motivate me to work hard, but there’s nothing on my playlist for this. Britney Spears’ “Work Bitch” isn’t going to cut it. And playing Christina Aguilera’s “Fighter” only reminds me of their supposed rivalry.
Everything she said, it’s nothing I haven’t thought about before, but since I haven’t dated in years, I just sort of blocked it all out. Thank you, Mrs. Quaid, for bringing it all up again.
Pulling my car in front of Rorke’s place, I just sit, staring. I know he’s inside packing, planning, excited for us to leave in the morning. An hour ago, I was, too.
I catch a glimpse of him through a window, only a second, but I can see his smile all the way out here. He’s a good man. A man that wants a nice, regular life. A man that wants to head a charity dedicated to his brother’s memory. We haven’t discussed it, but I know he wants kids, a wife, the whole Norman Rockwell image of family. And after what happened with Levi, he deserves it.
And I can’t give it to him.
He passes the window again, and I lower my head to the steering wheel, trying to hide. It’s stupid. I’m sitting here in a massive SUV. Sniffling, I push the start button, needing to get out of here. I look up to check my mirrors, seeing Rorke now standing on his front porch, watching me. He looks like the teenage boy that stood in that very spot and watched me walk away. My eyes lock on his. I won’t do that to him again. He deserves to know why I’m leaving him this time.
Turning my car off, I open the door and get out. He doesn’t come towards me. He just watches. I close my eyes for a second as I walk towards him, praying I don’t hurt him too much. “I can’t go to New Orleans with you,” I say, stopping a few feet from him.
“Why?”
“I just think we need to spend some time . . .” Shaking my head at myself, I know I need to make this a clean, quick break. “I think it’s best if we don’t see each other anymore.”
I wait a few seconds for a response, expecting him to yell, or ask questions. I don’t expect him to bust out laughing at me, but that’s exactly what he does. “Rorke, I’m serious.”
“I know,” he says, chuckling. “That makes it even funnier.”
“Dammit,” I say. “I’m breaking up with you. Don’t laugh at me.”
Reigning himself in, he’s still smiling when he steps closer to me and reaches out. If he touches me, that’s it. I’ll cave. So I step back, holding up my hands.
“We can’t do this.”
“It’s done,” he whispers. “Can’t take it back now.”
“Rorke, please,” I say.
“My heart isn’t fickle,” he says. “I love you, Sterling. Nothing will change that. You not coming to New Orleans won’t change that. You leaving me won’t change that. No matter what you do, where you go, I will always love you.”
“You are so damn stubborn,” I sob.
“Good thing for you my love is just as stubborn.”
His hands find my waist, and I melt into his chest. “I’m sorry.”
“Must’ve been some trip to the drug store,” he says. “Want to tell me what happened?”
I shake my head, wanting to hold on to this moment, to hold onto this man, wanting to believe everything he just said.